


Sirens & Satellites

by TeratoCybernetics



Category: Homestuck
Genre: Empress Feferi, F/F, Non-Sgrub AU, captain of the ss fuck you, captain vriska, not-so-sloppy makeouts, only an empress could top vriska, royal fuckery
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-03
Updated: 2012-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-28 19:34:17
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,167
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/311437
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TeratoCybernetics/pseuds/TeratoCybernetics
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Feferi’s answering smile is mischief itself, flicker-sharp and quick.</p><p>“Do you swear fealty to me, my spider-shark, my pretty, blue stingray?”</p><p>“Of course I do, fins.” Her voice is warm and cold at once, a laughing, throaty growl.</p><p>“Then you should be kneeling, shouldn’t you?” Feferi uncoils from her throne, making Vriska stand and back up as she does so.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sirens & Satellites

**Author's Note:**

  * For [urbanAnchorite (t_ZM)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/t_ZM/gifts).



> Title ganked from Ego Likeness' song of the same name.
> 
> urbanAnchorite's request:  
>  _Any brand of redrom (or heck, blackrom) between these two: Or an AU with an adult Vriska in Feferi's empire, which is something I've wanted to see forever?_
> 
>  
> 
> _I like my fluff with an aspect of seriousness, but fluff or dark as you see fit! I just think these two are so charming, especially Vriska's delight of Feferi's getting the better of her. And of Feferi being kind of razorblades in candyfloss, as it were. Aged-up smut thoroughly welcomed, especially if you're doing any empire AUs. Shady letter-of-marque naval 'heroes' plus their hot empresses is pretty much the hottest thing ever to me._
> 
>  
> 
> I couldn't bring myself to do full-on smut, unfortunately, but I liked the idea of the both of them seeing themselves as versus the old guard, and of Vriska being Fef's grounding in the here and now, while she's looking down the barrel of _millennia_.
> 
> \--

  
A door opens with a slight creak. Boots stalk in quick staccato across the audience chamber floor, a sound delivered in a beat she knows well.

 “Don’t you have some kind of ceremonial march to practice for?” Feferi opens her eyes, slow and unconcerned. Blurred through her eyelashes, at first the sound comes from a slash of inkblack and blue making its way to her. The throne is far more comfortable than it looks, and the irony of this isn’t lost on her. In an early-evening moment between audiences and meetings and paperwork, she is caught up in one of the far too few still moments she has in her night. Her vision clears from not-precisely-sleep, floating close enough to the surface of awareness to speak and respond, and the colour condenses, becomes the familiar shape of High Captain Serket, all flourish and attitude, dress blacks trimmed in cerulean.

“Loads. Oodles.” Vriska approaches, removes her hat and drapes herself over Feferi’s lap anyway, one hand to her head as if she is swooning. “I’ve got a leeeeeeeeegion of incompetent little bulgebrains to train, most of whom don’t want to listen to me because I don’t have these.” She sighs theatrically, runs a finger over the spines on her high commander’s facial fins, making her hiss and unravel a little before handing her Empress a mug of coffee.

“At least they don’t _shell-ectively_ listen, and hear what they want to because you haven’t culled enough of them yet.” Feferi drains half the mug in one go, glaring into the rest of it as if there might be a solution to her obstacles in the fragrant black liquid.

“Well, you _haven’t_. I can think of at least three other than Eridan who could use a good stabbing. I’m excluding him solely on it being somewhat personal.” This sets Feferi giggling a little. It’s not the unrestrained laughter of when they were children, but they haven’t been considered children since the ritual in which she defeated the Condesce. She relaxes some, leaning into the attention. Her guards, her court, all frown upon this dalliance, but they wouldn’t dare voice it in front of the Empress or any of her supporters. When she had first taken the crown, she’d had a far more liberal hand with her fork, cowing the remainder by personally carving a swath through the worst of the bloodcaste advocates in power, the Condesce’s loyalists. And Vriska has been her red right hand ever since, gleefully quelling further argument on a military scale, enforcing the altered laws, riding the changing tides as if the chaos of the change itself fueled her.

A little gossip can be good for a court, anyway, and what better harmless scandal is there than the speculation on precisely how the Empress is keeping her pet pirate in line? Most of the ones flapping their faceholes about the situation, a passel of stuffy violets and their hangers-on, not coincidentally are also old enough to remember Vriska’s ancestor well enough to see the resemblance.

“I’m glubbing done with indiscriminate krilling for a bit.” She runs her fingers over her gold circlet, over the sigil carved in the flawless pink gem in the centre, sighs and rests her chin on Serket's shoulder, buries her nose in wind-wild black hair. Thinking on the crown, the throne, this room, stained with so much blood it shakes her to imagine it, it’s like she inherited all her predecessor’s years on top of the title, the gold and tourmaline on her brow. She feels impossibly old.

“You just have to show them you’re willlllllling. They’ll get the point.” Vriska, a creature of immediacy, runs her claws through Feferi’s hair, kneads the tightness in her shoulder and strokes at the base of her horns. She shrugs lightly. “Or they won’t, and get a whole different fucking point.” Shifting position so they are face-to-face, she peels off her uniform coat, grinning. Finished with talk of politics, of grim duties, Vriska presses ever so slightly against her in all the right ways, snapping her back into much more preferable thoughts of the here-and-now. She's all lean muscle and lazy long edges, all unschooled elegance, built like her own sword. Feferi’s answering smile is mischief itself, flicker-sharp and quick.

“Do you swear fealty to me, my spider-shark, my pretty, blue stingray?”

“Of course I do, fins.” Her voice is warm and cold at once, a laughing, throaty growl.

“Then you should be kneeling, shouldn’t you?” Feferi uncoils from her throne, making Vriska stand and back up as she does so. Their mouths meet in sharp teeth and the rasping of cold tongues, as she begins unbuttoning the blue’s uniform, gently pressing her down, a not-so-subtle followup on her suggestion. Vriska does, running strong hands over Feferi’s hipbones.

“Maybe I _should_ be.” She digs in her claws just enough for it to be felt through the fabric of Feferi’s robes, Vriska's own answering request for her to sit back down again, to part her knees. Then she’s unwrapping intricate folds of black and fuchsia, maddeningly slowly, watching colour rise in Feferi’s face like dawn approaching. The Empress slides forward, tips Vriska’s chin up and leans over to bite her, tiny little remora-nips up the line of her jaw, a row of pale blue blossoms ending in another razored kiss tasting of coffee and salt and hints of blood from both their teeth as Vriska’s hands find their way beneath her gown-

 A cough and a polite knock from near the door makes them both freeze in place. “Your-I mean, Empress?”

They pull away from one another as a Royal Pagilist enters, and stare him down like howlbeasts startled at a kill. To his credit, he simply flushes and then goes pale, eyes wide like a startled hopbeast, before composing himself and saluting. Vriska’s face is a stormcloud, a promise of building fury, but Feferi just wears a dispassionate mask, refusing to show any shame. She mutters something graceless, but loses none of her poise. “Your midnight meeting on the new taxation policies is about to assemble.”

“Thank you for the notice. Summon refreshment, and show them in when it arrives.” The kid nods, and leaves with some haste, fairly glowing green high in his cheeks. Snarling, Vriska has pulled her coat back on and buttoned up her uniform once again, but she’s still keyed up, breathing a bit heavily. She replaces her hat as if it, too, has offended her, tearing one of the holes where her horns fit through. Before she can turn to bow, she feels one of Feferi’s hands at her waist, keeping her.

“I’m going to _fucking eat him_.”

 “Tides can’t be blamed for what floats in them. Stay, for this one. You can move up your rehear-sea-l.” She runs a finger over the line of bites along Vriska’s jawline, a slight smile playing over darkened, blue-touched lips. “If we make them uncomfortable, let’s see how glubbing uncomfortable they can get.”


End file.
